Hero
by Litt
Summary: [The water could not be hot enough tonight.]


**Hero  
**Litt  
Mar 17, 05

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The water could not be hot enough tonight.

Harry has saved the day, the _world--_ sixteen years of preparation fulfilled in one torturous night. Voldemort is dead.

Harry washes the blood away, watches it flow passed his toes, down the drain, and forgets how it got on him in the first place. Or tries to; denial only goes so far.

Some of the bruises stay: dark splotches of rotten meat under his pale skin, thin structured planes that would crumble under such pressure if he were not so damn resilient; some of the bruises are ones he can't see. He convinces himself they are there, that he can feel them. The skin underneath both the literal and figurative hurts turns an irritated pink—he keeps scrubbing. It is not for him anymore—he's long ago made the decision to ignore such insanity when it happened—but for the people outside.

Those cheering, happy people.

They can't see him like this. Not all bruised up (they'd realize it had been a pyrrhic victory then), not with invisible stains on his skin (they'd see that it had happened and wasn't at all glorious), and he couldn't present himself to the world with droplets, red and salty droplets, dripping from his hair (they'd know it was still fresh). They'd come to the conclusion he could've told them if they'd asked: the man before them had just killed someone.

He has given up wondering how and why they believe him a hero for this task. It doesn't matter anymore.

Harry Potter is a hero.

Harry James Potter is a murderer.

By all rights, I should be dead as well, he thinks. I could've died.

That last battle had taken nearly everything, had nearly dragged him in, but at the last second the Dark Lord had fallen, leaving the boy feeling bereft. Disappointed.

Harry, without much consideration, left the body where it had fallen (the stone floor of some ruined Pagan sanctuary) and apparated to the Dursley's. Still grimy, still thinking of the world and his name, he wrote to the Order, the ministry, the press, and then he'd headed for the bathroom. No one was in the house. The boy who greeted him in the mirror was a stranger with brilliant eyes, wild hair, torn clothes, and grimy skin. A boy Harry thought he knew. But he felt so very removed now: the Hero in Harry was retching, disgusted with the parts of him that made him fight these years, and he thinks the boy in the mirror feels the same way.

You're no better than he was! They shout together, a shrill litany of false-empathy.

Stepping into the shower, he'd realized that he was still clutching his wand. He lets it fall, lets it stop at the drain so all the grime and sweat washes over it. Maybe it'll be cleaned, if he himself cannot be. There was blood, strangely, on its shaft as well.

Only when the water rained down on him did he realize he didn't really care about his name, not any more. But, he decided, looking down at the cut pads of his hands, he'd act like he did, if only for them—those people; they couldn't believe in anything without a poster-boy. That was his job, after all.

How many times had he resigned himself to the role they made for him, and how many times had that flown through his mind as he fought their enemies? How he had fought.

He knows the Ministry will have gotten his letter by now, meaning they're debating over whether to believe him or not; the press will argue amongst themselves over whether it is a hoax; the Order will come looking for him. He knows that, even with the familial charm of #4, the Death Eaters could burst through the door. Right now, he just wants to be alone (so bugger anyone who tried disturbing him)--he wants to crawl back under the cupboard or his barren room--he wants Vernon to tell him there is no such thing as magic so he can laugh in his face--he wants to have never met Certain People. He wants the water to score these things away. He wants that so bad.

The water could not be hot enough tonight.

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**AN**: Because, once upon a time, I imagined the Big Battle at the end of the series to be a lot darker, less crowded; the Big Baddie's death to be something I didn't have to squint to see. That said, I definately wasn't expecting the Big Hero to _not_ get over it without me seeing. A play on one of the effects of PTSD. Now that the series is over...I just...it's weird. I feel like some of the fandom authors have explored the characters more than--anyway, this was written a long time ago and I need it now to cool the burn of the Epilogue.


End file.
